


Halfway-Decent

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Porn, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy gets significantly more than he bargained for with a pair of gold-eyed prostitutes.</p>
<p>[AU, but with some spoilers for Brotherhood 'verse.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halfway-Decent

**Author's Note:**

> I mean it about the AU thing~ Enjoy. *eyebrows*

Never play Russian roulette with the rooms of a whorehouse. Never let your heart out of a cage built for its own protection. Never take your eyes off the prize.

“We couldn’t separate them,” the sick bastard who owns these people says, “so eventually I just figured—sell ’em as a package deal. So far they don’t seem to mind.”

“Huh,” Roy says. Roy does not say, _They don’t_ seem _to ‘mind’ because they’re so dosed up on aphrodisiacs that I can see myself in their pupils from here._

The proprietor glances at him sideways and winks. “They’re also pretty damn good entertainers if you prefer to watch.”

Roy looks between the two lithe creatures curled up against the headboard, arms linked, hair mixing, warp and weft. One’s half-silver, and they’re both accented gold.

“…twins?” he manages.

“Brothers,” the man says, “but the metal one’s older, we’re pretty sure. It’s hard to get more than a few words about their history out of them that make any sense, but we think maybe they were in some kind of car crash, and they’ve been kind of—what’s it—catatonic ever since. Small wonder they ended up here.”

Roy shifts his gaze to level suspicion, not that this creature is capable of feeling shame. “How old are they?”

“Oh,” the man says, winking broadly, “both over eighteen. They were very clear on that point. Everything’s by the books here, sir.”

The money is already in that thing’s pocket. It’s far too late to resist the system by withholding patronage. At this rate, Roy might as well just chalk up another victory for regret.

“Certainly,” he says in the tones of pointed discretion that the military has taught him all too well. “A very law-abiding establishment you have here. Am I going to be able to find everything I need?”

The man waves a hand, and a shadow with downcast eyes passes him some cheap wine and a bottle of brandy. “One or the other’s complimentary. _Supplies_ are in the nightstand drawer. Anything else you require, Mr. Ostler?”

Roy takes the brandy and steps over the threshold. “No. That’s all. Thank you.”

The door shuts behind him, and quiet footsteps retreat down the ratty carpet runner. Roy takes a light step closer to the bed, and then the heavy one, and then he can see that the two pairs of eyes tracking him aren’t actually brown; they’re _yellow_. The thought that something so exotic could wind up here is sad and scary and… makes his guts tighten with a flash of sudden heat. Shouldn’t have drunk at dinner. Shouldn’t have let them pick the ‘reward’ for this promotion. Shouldn’t have joined the fucking army and learned how to numb his head and his heart simultaneously on command.

He sets the brandy down on the nightstand and pulls the drawer open. It squeaks, and the older brother flinches. The younger just peers at Roy, head tilted, with a ghost of a smile.

Bastard who runs this hellhole knows his shit, at least; everything is individually packaged, and all of the foil is intact.

“Sir,” the younger one says—soft, high voice; no fucking way that kid is legal; there’s not a hair on his jaw or his chest, and the ones on his legs are pale. “What can we do for you tonight?”

_Save my soul or kill me, and then pour the brandy down my throat._ He looks at them as steadily as he can manage; they’ve got the makings of one halfway-decent outfit between them. Younger has a pair of black boxer shorts that do a great deal to emphasize how long and beautiful his legs are; and Elder’s wearing nothing more or less than an oversized shirt, faded red, with a grand total of three of the buttons done up. Roy can make out surgery scars past the collar, and the slack fabric drapes between his crossed legs in a way that makes Roy’s insides squeeze.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. Crap mattress; his back is going to reproach him for this tomorrow, too. “Can you make me forget I’m here?”

Younger releases Elder’s normal arm, delicately touching the elbow, the wrist, and then the fingers as he does, and crawls over to curl up next to Roy, body warm and eyes wide. He blinks and gives a small, extremely tempting smile. “Does that mean you would rather we didn’t speak?”

“I like your voice,” Roy says, surprising both of them. “Just… Blot out everything else. Can you do that?”

Warm, slender hands curl around his shoulders and guide him down onto the bed with unexpected strength. “Yes, sir. We can.”

The clever fingers dart over the fastenings of his uniform coat, and it’s undone; they dance down the row of buttons on his shirt, and the cotton whispers aside.

“You get a lot of military clients?” Roy asks, rather more breathlessly than he’d like to admit.

The boy’s fingertips trace loops and swirls lightly across his chest, and it takes all of his willpower to keep his back from arching already. “I suppose,” the boy says. He leans down, and his little pink tongue licks all the way up Roy’s breastbone; from there he mouths at the left collarbone and settles the palm of his hand on the right side of Roy’s neck. “I don’t really keep track. Brother does sometimes.”

Roy’s gaze slides over to the form huddled against the headboard, red and yellow and gleaming chrome, sharper-eyed than before—attentive.

The younger boy draws his hand down over Roy’s shoulder and nuzzles his way up Roy’s neck, breathing moistly against his ear, nipping the shell and then kissing at it damply before Roy’s finished gasping. “We’ve never had one as handsome as you.”

Roy laughs, more than a little dryly, and writhes away from the pleasant tickle of the boy’s mouth on his ear. “Like hell. You don’t have to butter me up, sweetheart.”

The boy straddles his waist, fair hair straggling into those extraordinary eyes, and smiles at him slightly impishly. “But it’s so fun when things get… slippery.”

Roy can hear the blood beating in his brain. He didn’t mean to get so caught up—or maybe he did, but not quite this fast. It doesn’t matter, really; he knows he needs this. He knows he needs a chance to stop thinking, to shut everything down at least for a moment, and if it can be found in a seedy brothel on the bad side of East City, then… so be it.

The boy’s quick-darting, hot-wet tongue probes at the hollow between his collarbones and then drags up his throat, and before Roy can tell him not to get personal, the soft mouth has sealed over his, and he’s twisting up into the contact. Apparently it’s too late for personal. Roy sometimes thinks he lives in a perpetual state of _too late_.

“You taste good,” the boy murmurs, eyelids rising slowly, gaze focusing with searing intensity. “Like wine. Did you want the brandy, sir?”

_Trust me; you’re too intoxicating by half as it stands._

Can’t say that.

“I want _you_ ,” Roy manages, which isn’t quite as bad.

The boy’s smile looks genuinely pleased. That’s got to count for something.

He shifts back, and the pressure as that tight little ass moves over Roy’s cock is enough to make his vision swim. Then the deft hands are working at his trousers, opening them, pulling them do—

“Wait,” Roy gasps. “Don’t—”

The boy’s drawn back and slid off of the bed to remove them, and he drops to his knees with them crumpled around Roy’s ankles, fabric bunched in his hands. Roy’s on his elbows, head spinning, heart pounding, feeling—well, he is naked, obviously, but this is… more than that.

“Your leg,” the boy says. “Brother, his leg is like yours, look!”

Metal slithers against the worn sheets as the elder brother unfolds and looks at the steel that makes up two-thirds of Roy’s right leg. His eyes are frigidly calculating, and it probably says too much about Roy that that only makes his exposed cock harder.

“What happened?” Elder asks quietly.

“Accident,” Roy says. On the most technical level, it’s true, and all of the files and documentation in Amestris will confirm it. That’s what the authorities found, because his guardian angel heard him sobbing into the blood-splattered receiver and knew what he’d done—knew that he’d done precisely what he swore to her he wouldn’t.

_“Hello?”_

_“I… I—”_

_“Sir? Sir! Roy!”_

_Blackout. Then pale hands clenched in his reddening collar. “—at me! We have to get rid of this!”_

_“I… know…”_

_A moment of sheer transcendence, like the one minute-hour-lives ago, in the white, with the universe flowing-flying-unfurling in his head. The fear in her eyes; the love. The things not said: ‘Even if it had worked, the man that came back would have belonged to them, not to you.’_

_Still. Not-having was better than losing. Still…_

_“I’m sorry.” Wet words. Her face in focus, out; crisp, blurry. “But I had to… try… The risk…”_

_Dark eyes. Warm-dark, not like his. “Listen to me. We have to make this look like—”_

“An accident,” the older boy says slowly, and those eyes are like agate.

“This is how Brother likes it,” the younger says, and the marvelous fingers dig into the flesh above the port, pressing, kneading, firm knuckles and gentle thumbs. Roy’s breath makes a swift exodus from his lungs at how _good_ that is—at how it soothes the piqued and prickling nerves like nothing else, ever; at the release of tension so familiar he’d stopped feeling it. “Your automail is so _clean_ , sir,” the boy is saying. “Do you polish it every day?”

“Y-yes,” Roy says—no small task given that every tightening muscle in his body’s screaming _More_. “Almost. As often as I can.”

Younger must be shooting Elder a look; Elder snorts and says “What _ever_ ,” although Roy would bet the younger brother hears the “I love you” too. Elder fixes that skin-peeling golden glare on Roy’s face again.

“When you’re satisfied,” he says, dragging his cold metal fingers slowly across Roy’s chest; when did he get so close? “You’re going to tell me what really happened.”

Younger’s warm hand spreads on the inside of Roy’s thigh, and then his tongue runs slowly up the underside of Roy’s cock.

“ _Ohfuck_ ,” Roy gasps out. “I’ll tell you anything you want.”

Roy wishes he had the presence of mind to be sad—to be _distraught_. To mourn the fact that this sweet-faced little boy with the disheveled sunshine hair and the dark-gold eyes is an absolutely expert whore. But the searing wet mouth is around his dick, and that hair’s sliding in silky wisps over his stomach, and those delicate fingers are smoothing at the creases of his thighs, and there’s nothing left. Nothing to spare. Just _pleasure pleasure pleasure good good more faster please_.

He’s straining to hold back—he wants this to last forever, because it’s better every second, and if it just keeps _going_ , he’ll die of it, mind whited out so thoroughly he’ll have forgotten what the word ‘miserable’ means. He’ll just burst, bloodily, all over this grimy little room, and these beautiful children will clean up and take their paychecks from the motherfucker in reception; maybe they’ll shower together, all slick long limbs and sodden hair, and Elder will rub soap over Younger’s chest, and Younger will press him up against the tiles of the wall and murmur _You’re not maintaining your automail properly, you naughty boy—_

The sweltering mouth slips up and off of his dick, glorious tongue taking a last swipe at the tip as it slides away. The boy gulps in a few deep breaths, licks his lips, and massages at his jaw. Then he smiles, and Roy thinks that if he still had a heart—if he hadn’t dropped it in the war and lost it amongst the rubble; if he hadn’t buried it in a shroud of bridal lace as the rest of the world moved on; if he hadn’t left it as kindling in the townhouse that he and Riza burned to the ground—it would be breaking.

“Brother?” the boy says cheerfully, and Elder leans over and rummages in the nightstand drawer. Younger slithers back off of the bed, stands, wobbles, pushes his hair out of his face, and shimmies out of the shorts. He leaves them on the floor and clambers back up onto the creaking mattress, kneeling between Roy’s legs. He’s a little bit _too_ thin, Roy thinks now that he can see all of the bones; he needs cream-filled pastries and fleecy blankets and the kind of coddling usually reserved for spoiled pets in Central; all the same Roy wants to get his mouth on every fucking centimeter of that gorgeous skin.

The boy puts his fingers in his mouth, lathing them all the way down, and then shifts his weight back and presses them up behind his pert little dick to work himself open.

At that point Roy’s not thinking anything at all.

“Ahh… hnh.” Everything about him is—the trembling starts at the base of Roy’s spine and spreads like a sickness. The boy’s eyes glaze and drift half-shut, and every faint little kitten sound as he fucks himself on those goddamn perfect fingers makes Roy’s damp dick twitch.

He manages to stifle a yelp by clenching his hands in the bedsheets when Elder’s mismatched hands start rolling a condom on him—cold, hot, coldhotcold; the kid’s incredibly careful with the metal, all things considered; his touch is so light that Roy’s hips jerk towards it as if to confirm it’s there. Roy manages to tear his gaze away from Younger long enough to watch Elder rip a packet of lube open with his teeth, and then he’s smoothing it down Roy’s throbbing cock with his flesh hand, just the flimsy plastic in between.

“Ready,” Younger gasps.

Elder looks at him. “You sure?”

Younger crawls forward, hair dragging into his eyes again as they flick over Roy’s face, and he smiles—thinly, warmly, unhesitating. “Yeah.”

Elder reaches over to grasp one of those jutting hips and cups the flesh hand under the curve of that smart little ass, lifting, shifting, guiding until Younger brushes the tip of Roy’s dick, brushes harder, settles his knees on either side of Roy’s body, then sinks—down—and—

Honest-to-God fucking stars. “Holy _shit_!”

“Am I too tight?” Younger asks, rocking forward, and Roy’s grip on the sheets makes his wrists ache.

“You are fucking _miraculous_ ,” Roy says. Whence that coherency originates, he hasn’t the slightest goddamn clue.

Elder scoffs a laugh and then splays the metal hand on Roy’s chest, which makes holding a grudge impossible.

“Mmm…” Younger bends forward until Roy chokes, and then he squeezes that fine fucking ass, and the heat and pressure of him so close around Roy’s dick like this is just—just like—

The boy rolls his hips again, making sparks burst everywhere in Roy’s brain, and he sputters wordlessly and earns another snicker from Elder. Before he can protest, the snarky little bitch is kissing him, hard; it’s a whole new type of tumult, and maddeningly dextrous tongues must run in the family. Elder bites Roy’s bottom lip and twists the flesh fingers in his hair; then he tugs and draws back and breathes, “Figured you’d like it rough.”

Roy’s hands make their shaking way up Younger’s thighs, and then he slides them around to dig his fingers into that luscious ass, pulling the smooth little body down harder, harder, _fuck_ —

Maybe a little bit too hard; his spine protests as the shit mattress jabs a spring at him, and Younger whimpers softly, tiny curled fists coming to rest against Roy’s waist. Elder nips Roy’s ear, none too gently, and then scrambles up and cups Younger’s face in his flesh hand.

“You okay?”

Younger raises his head slowly, looking at Elder through the curtain of pale hair with an intensity that makes Roy’s guts twist. “Touch me,” he says.

Elder buries his face in Younger’s neck and draws the flesh hand down, down, down over the supple skin to wrap it around his brother’s erection. He pulls off long, slow strokes, smoothly, kissing Younger’s shoulder, sucking at his throat. Sweat gathers on Roy’s forehead; he pushes up with all the leverage he can find, and the boy writhing on his cock bears down. Elder’s metal fingers creep up Roy’s ribs, and his shiver resonates through all three of them.

“B-brother—” Younger gasps.

Elder twists his hand and hisses through his teeth; there’s a dark violet hickey under Younger’s ear.

“Al,” the older boy says. “ _Alphonse_.”

Younger cries out, arches, tenses, and comes violently, spilling heat all over Roy’s stomach.

The tightening of the boy’s muscles brings Roy right up to the edge—from the precipice he can see how far he’s going to fall, and he can estimate just how hard he’s going to hit the ground.

Elder, sitting back, half-curled like a cat, meets Roy’s eyes. Then he ducks down, planting his metal hand on Roy’s shoulder, and starts licking his brother’s semen off of Roy’s skin.

Roy gasps for breath and hears his exhale emerge as “ _OhmyfuckingGod_.”

Younger does a little shimmy-swivel on his cock, and Elder laps smoothly, and Roy fists a hand in that fucking unbelievable gold hair as the lightning stabs right through him, head to the tip of his _fucking_ toes; his hips jerk high despite the weight of both of them, and he lets go and just—

_Fuck_ —

So—

_Good_.

When he drops back into himself—the last place he wants to be, but one of the few truly necessary evils of his life—he’s staring at the water-stained ceiling, and there’s a warm blond boy wrapped around each of his arms. Younger prods at the uniform’s stars with his fingertip and then yawns cavernously, which is so adorable that Roy has probably graduated to a whole new level of sick-and-wrong for fucking him.

“What’s your first name, Mr. Ostler?” he mumbles, snuggling with Roy’s shoulder now.

God. He’d thought he didn’t have any cardiac muscle left to wring. “Roy.”

“Mmn. I’m Al.”

_Yeah, I heard._ “Are you going to sleep, Al?” Shit, that’s his hand brushing back the silky bangs.

“If you don’t mind…”

“Of course not.”

It’s a good thing, too; Al’s breathing starts to settle almost immediately, and he squirms a little closer, still buck naked and unholily cute.

“There’s a gate like the one in the garden,” he murmurs, “but you don’t have to latch it when you leave.”

The older brother’s up like a shot, eyes huge and trained on Al. They flash to Roy, and then he’s diving for the nightstand, scrabbling wildly, tearing a false bottom out of the drawer— “What did he say?”

“I—don’t know,” Roy manages. “Something about a ga—”

“ _Exactly_ what did he say?” Elder’s on his knees at Roy’s side now, a notepad in his metal hand, a pen poised in the fingers of the other one. “Word for fucking word.”

Looking at the strange fury in those yellow eyes, Roy thinks as he recites it that he’s lucky his memory clings to things like that.

The boy scribbles it down, forehead furrowed, and then flips through the pages, chewing on his lip. He huffs a sigh and then glances over at Roy. “Ostler’s not your real last name, is it?”

Roy lets his head drop back onto the rather unforgiving mattress. “Mustang,” he says. “Roy Mustang.”

The boy stops worrying his lip long enough to smirk with it instead. “Funny.”

Roy gestures with a very heavy hand towards the notes. “What is all that?”

The flesh knuckles grind into the boy’s eye. “It… Al always… talks about this gate. I talk about… armor, mostly. ‘Seven-foot-tall suit of armor’, I said once.” He points for emphasis. “And I tell him I’m sorry a lot.”

Roy looks at him and tries to read between the jagged lines. “What the hell are you two _doing_ here?”

“I don’t know,” the boy says, turning the pages slowly now. “Neither of us can remember a damn thing. It’s like—there are all these bits and pieces, but it’s like trying to assemble a piece of paper out of fucking confetti. I think… I don’t know. Simultaneous amnesia doesn’t make any fucking sense, and I’ve got this feeling like we… gave it up somehow.” He leans over to put the pen and the notepad back on the nightstand, and the red shirt drapes to give Roy an excellent view of an ass every bit as remarkably fine as Al’s. “Obviously we’ve been trying to figure it out. They watch us take the pills in the mornings, so we alternate weeks with who throws them up every day and tries to make sense of shit.”

Roy is about to ask why the kid thinks they can trust him with their stratagem, and then he remembers that they know he’s in the military and recently extracted his real name.

“You’re brilliant,” he says, realizing that it’s true—that you can see it, so clearly that it’s like an aura in the air. “I have to get you out of here.”

He blinks, and there’s a metal hand pressing on his trachea.

“Don’t say that.” The boy’s eyes are aflame, and his flesh knee is lodged just under Roy’s ribcage, although that pressure’s only a threat thus far—Roy’s mind boggles with so many things that _As flexible as Al is, too_ surfaces with a rush of blood to his cheeks. “Don’t you fucking _say_ that unless you _mean_ it. Every asshole who comes here and thinks we’re a fun sideshow says shit like that, and I’m sick of false fucking hope, got it?”

Roy attempts to nod and is duly—if carefully—released. He takes a deep breath, appreciating it, and then another to brace himself.

“I meant it,” he says.

“How’d you lose the leg?” the boy asks.

“Human transmutation,” Roy says. “What’s your name?”

“Ed. What—what does that mean? It sounds—” He rubs at his right temple with the left hand. “Ow.”

“It means I’m weak,” Roy says. “Come here.” The boy shoots him a wary look and then creeps close enough for Roy to card his fingers through the worst of the tangles in Ed’s hair. He gets a noise very much like a purr for his pains. “It means my best friend died in the war, leaving a wife and a toddler behind. I’d been in love with him since we were teenagers, and I figured I had nothing to lose trying to bring him back.”

Ed leans into Roy’s combing fingers and raises his right arm, turning it and watching the play of light. “There’s always something to lose.”

“And usually something to gain,” Roy says. “What do you say we blow this joint and commit an act of arson?”

Ed gives him a weird look. “Most of the girls are really nice, and some of them don’t know anything else.” He buries his face in Roy’s arm—unexpected, and slightly frightening. “ _I_ don’t know anything else. I mean, I know I do, but I can’t…” He glances up, scowling now. “Besides, there’re night guards and shit. Tons.”

Roy hooks a finger into a tear in Ed’s shirt, meets its owner’s skeptical expression, extricates his arm from Al’s hug, claps his hands together, and touches it.

Ed scrambles back from the crackle of energy and then stares down at the mended fabric.

“Alchemy,” he says faintly, and then he delves both hands into his hair, eyes squeezed shut. “My _head_ —”

Roy manages to loop an arm around him and haul him back in without waking Al.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he says. “As soon as I can.” He pauses. “Although you’ll need some pants.”

Ed laughs halfheartedly into his chest. “I think I might almost like you, Roy Mustang.”


End file.
